


Mistletoe

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Romantic Fluff, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier holds out the branch, still very much attached to the tree, but seemingly starting to splinter away. “This, my dear Witcher,” he explains, “is mistletoe. It grows in the winter.”Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Alright,” he drawls out, wondering why he’s still here.Jaskier huffs. “You really don’t know anything of the world,” he grumbles under his breath. Jaskier steadies himself, seemingly about to reveal the secrets of the world to the Witcher. “At Oxenfurt, we used to get sprigs of it for the winter and bring it to parties. There’s a lot of history and mythology associated with it. The most common tradition is that whoever stands beneath a sprig of mistletoe,” something different flashes across Jaskier’s face, “must share a kiss.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 220





	Mistletoe

He really should start heading north. The winds are changing and chilling with every passing day, biting and gnawing at him and draining the Continent of its colour. Once lush green trees turned amber and their leaves collapsed. Farm animals that had spent their year outside are now herded into sheds, sparing them from the worst of the winter chill. And the harvests have been pulled in. Markets that had been bursting with seasonal summer wine and citrus fruits and fresh vegetables now sell stocky and hardy roots; potatoes, carrots, parsnips.

When the first chill rode along the winds, brushing his exposed nape one evening as they set up camp by a river bend, he knew that he should start planning his trek back to the keep. Some years, when he was younger and bad at timing, he would have to walk through the whole Continent. Being in the southern kingdoms wasn’t ideal when the winds started to change. So when the summer festivals started to quieten down, he wandered back north, lingering around the middle kingdoms of Aedirn and Temeria, waiting for the change in order to head home.

The bard doesn’t seem to notice the change at all. Oxenfurt must not have sent for him this year. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. Leaving the bard at the gates of the city was an assurance to himself; Jaskier would be safe, or as safe as he could be, within a walled city and lounging in all of the comforts the Academy could offer him.

When his feelings to the bard changed, when brief fleeting touches started to linger and words turned kinder, he tried to ignore the stomach-churning pang in his chest whenever he headed back on to the road. No matter how many times he assured himself that Jaskier would be safe, and he would see him again in the following spring, he missed the endless nattering by his side, the familiar, rhythmic beat of a heart across the campfire. And Roach missed her treats that the bard would often sneak her in order to buy her affections. Roach always turned into a right cow whenever her new favourite human was left behind. Geralt could only offer her as many treats in grievance as she required.

Geralt watches the bard, putting the last few sticks on to the fire to kindle it brighter. It sparks and spits, but he’s not as skittish of it as he once was in those first few days of them travelling together. The skies are clear and dry, thank the gods, with their bedrolls already spread out on the most comfortable and rock-less stretch of grass.

Jaskier sets his hands on to his hips. “Do you think this is enough?” he asks, squinting against the last of the bright winter light battling through the clouds. The sun will be gone completely in an hour. Geralt has watched it tumble down over the last while, almost lost completely to the nearby ridge.

Geralt glances up, regarding the sparking fire. “It could do with some more branches,” he grunts, putting the last of Roach’s tack away. The last few days have been quiet. And he’s always been cautious of that particular word. Nothing about his life is _quiet_. Vesemir’s words are suddenly against the shell of his ear to always be aware of his surroundings, that if he lowers his guard something will come out of the shadows and be his end.

But days have gone by with no contracts, and the nights have let them sleep undisturbed. He’s been too anxious about it to enjoy it, but now, his shoulders might start to be waning and relaxing. Maybe everything _is_ quiet.

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he says firmly, setting off into a nearby patch of trees to find more kindling. The city-dwelling bard with an idealistic view of living off of the road isn’t with them anymore. That boy was left behind years ago. The forest’s edge shields them from the worst of the passing gusts. Should it rain, because gods only know that the weather on the Continent is a fickle and changeable thing, there’s enough overhead reach from the canopy to bustle under. Until then, he’s happy to look up and watch the stars start to blink to life as the skies turn darker. The moon has already come up to join them, seeing the sun off and promising to keep watch over the people the sun also calls her own. The moon can be kinder. At least she doesn’t scald his skin in the height of summer, and turn the ground dry and ignite fires. Though the moon can bring her own monsters out to join them.

Roach chews on some grass nearby, pawing at the base of a tree he’s sure has fruit on it somewhere. A few stray berries sit at the base of the tree, forgotten about by birds in their efforts to stock up for the winter before heading south. She seems happy enough, tail swishing and whipping at stray flies, but it’s one of the few nights he’s taken her tack off. If the night stays quiet, she won’t need to be bothered.

Geralt’s ears tune to the wind. He can distantly hear the next village; being on a vast plain of land helps the sound travel, even when the village is still a few miles away. Roach’s tail swishing and the crackling of the fire, it’s all blocked out as he keeps his senses tuned. Even when he sleeps, he doesn’t go that far down, just in case anything, or anyone, stumbles on to their camp.

And that’s when he hears it.

“Geralt!”

He should be used to it. Some might say that he is, considering how much trouble his bard always seems to get himself in. So his fingers curl around the pommel of his sword and he’s up and bolting into the thin thicket of trees before his mind can catch up with him. His ears are tuned to the wind. He knows which way Jaskier went and where his voice came from. His legs pulse as he sprints, crackling leaves and twigs underneath his boots and dodging low-hanging branches.

It’s only a few seconds before he spots Jaskier, alone, among the trees. Geralt’s medallion stays silent. It doesn’t tremble or quiver; though he’s learned not to put too much faith in it. Higher vampires and other creatures can trick even a Witcher’s medallion. He keeps his senses perked.

Jaskier turns to him, a curious look spread over his face. His gaze drops to Geralt’s side, to the hand curled tightly around his sword’s pommel. “Oh,” he says, almost as an afterthought, “put that away, come here.”

He’s gotten used to Jaskier worming himself into all sorts of trouble; and he’s gotten used to Jaskier sending him into cardiac arrests by shouting his name any time he finds anything remotely interesting. Too many occasions Geralt’s heart has nearly stilled in his chest when the bard calls out for him, only to drag him to the roadside to show him a rare breed of flower, or a story from his time in Oxenfurt that he suddenly remembered. And he has that same look on his face now.

A growl rumbles up Geralt’s throat. “Damn it, Jaskier,” he huffs. “I thought you were in trouble.”

He goes to turn on his heel, to stalk back to their camp where Roach is probably still nibbling on the fresh grass grounding around the roots of trees. But he doesn’t get that far. His ears twitch at the sound of footfalls disturbing twigs and suddenly, there is a hand catching his elbow. “Geralt,” Jaskier huffs, “come here. I want to show you something.”

He could shake the bard off. Jaskier isn’t holding on to him that firmly and Geralt is the stronger of both of them. But the bard fixes him with a firm stare, a stare that tells him he has no opinion on the matter and he _is_ going with Jaskier to see whatever nonsense the bard has found. Geralt rolls his eyes, barely managing to swallow a harsh sigh. “Fine,” he grunts, “but make it quick.”

The firm look slips from Jaskier’s face completely. His eyes turn soft and a smile curls along his lips. Geralt tries to keep his frown. He tries. But his eyes flicker down to the bard’s lips for a brief moment and Jaskier is suddenly dragging them further into the thicket.

He brings them to a tree. It looks like all of the others, barren and spindly and webbing its branches with its neighbours’. But when he stops glaring at the side of Jaskier’s face, wondering why in the name of all of the gods did the bard drag them away from their camp just to look at some tree, he spots it. The only hint of colour among the forest. A green bundle of leaves hanging from one of the branches, maybe an arm’s reach above their heads. Jaskier peers up at it, his grin near splitting his face as he switches his gaze between it and Geralt. “What do you think?” he asks.

Jaskier is still holding on to his elbow, he notices. A pang of warmth blooms through him and he struggles not to jerk his arm back, just to make the strange feeling stop. It’s cold and almost winter and the only warmth that should be around is from the fire back at their camp. He glances down at the hand set to his elbow. He could get out of it. He really could. One movement and he’d be free. But he begrudgingly looks at whatever it is that has Jaskier so giddy and fascinated.

“What is it?” Geralt grunts. It’s a plant. It looks like most plants he sees out in the wilds. Unless it could be used to brew helpful potions, or be deadly if ingested, he didn’t bother learning about it. Too much of his mind was taken up by Vesemir’s lessons on the differences between ghouls and alghouls.

Jaskier blinks at him for a second. “You’re serious?” he asks. His head snaps between Geralt’s face and the brush of green leaves hanging from the tree. “You don’t know what this is?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Geralt growls. He doesn’t need this. He has a fire to tend to – one that he’s pretty sure has snuffed itself out by now. And Roach will be wondering where they both are, though he doubts it. Roach doesn’t particularly care, unless he’s gone for more than a few hours.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. He steps forward, rolling up on to his toes to reach and grab at the brush. Between the leaves, sheltered from the worst of the frost, are tiny white buds of flowers. It’s a plant, but he presumes it could be seen as pretty. Jaskier likes pretty things. Geralt has spent too much time dragging him away from market stalls in the bigger towns; ones with dazzling, freshly crafted rings and bracelets. If Jaskier really likes to think of himself as a songbird, Geralt would much rather him be a magpie.

Jaskier holds out the branch, still very much attached to the tree, but seemingly starting to splinter away. “This, my dear Witcher,” he explains, “is mistletoe. It grows in the winter.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Alright,” he drawls out, wondering why he’s still here.

Jaskier huffs. “You really don’t know anything of the world,” he grumbles under his breath. Jaskier steadies himself, seemingly about to reveal the secrets of the world to the Witcher. “At Oxenfurt, we used to get sprigs of it for the winter and bring it to parties. There’s a lot of history and mythology associated with it. The most common tradition is that whoever stands beneath a sprig of mistletoe,” something different flashes across Jaskier’s face, “must share a kiss.”

And it’s as easy as that for someone like Jaskier. To just _say_ things and not have to struggle with getting the words out from his throat. Even though he didn’t speak them, Geralt can feel his thirst bobbing and starting to close up. He stares at Jaskier, because that’s all he can really do while his mind starts a war with itself, and he’s caught in the middle.

A long moment of silence stretches out between the two of them. He wishes a monster would actually break through the trees just so he would have something to do and _not_ have this conversation. But here it is, lain out for him. He could do something right now, act on those niggling feelings that are so terrible and human it makes him sick. And Jaskier watches him now, even in the dying light of the day, looking at him in the way that only he does. Like another person. Not how the Continent looks at him.

Geralt’s mouth opens, but nothing manages to come out.

Jaskier lets go of the brush, letting it spring back up to where it hangs over them.

He’s still holding on to his elbow. Geralt registers the warmth blooming through his whole arm and seeping into his chest.

“You don’t have to,” Jaskier murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe I read all of this wrong but, I see the way you look at me sometimes and...I just had to wonder...”

_Just say something. Anything._

“You don’t hate me.”

 _Well, maybe not that_.

Jaskier’s eyes soften. “No,” he hums. “I really don’t. I don’t see why so many people do, when you’re as brilliant as you are.”

He can feel colour starting to stain his cheeks. He doesn’t deserve this. Any of it. The way Jaskier looks back at him, how he sings about every good thing Geralt has done, the way he cares. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a Witcher, to hunt and kill monsters until a monster will eventually hunt and kill him.

Jaskier’s hand moves. It skims down his forearm, and his hand curls into his. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when Jaskier’s fingers entwine with his. The bard still holds his gaze. Looking at him in the way that says everything; _tell me to stop, or pull away, and I’ll stop_.

And he really doesn’t want to.

Geralt looks down at their joined hands. Warmth and soft skin, though he can feel the calluses on the bard’s fingers. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he does it before his mind can stop arguing with itself and stop him – because if he stops now, he’ll crack a rift between them and there will be no hope in mending it. Geralt takes a small step forward, watching Jaskier’s face as attentively as he can to make sure he isn’t doing anything he shouldn’t. Jaskier’s breath shakes out of him, but he lifts his chin. The small sliver of height difference between them means nothing. The bard’s lips are right there. He looks at them, in all the ways that he does whenever he thinks Jaskier doesn’t see him.

Geralt reaches out, cupping the bard’s cheek with his hand. Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t freeze as soon as Geralt’s skin touches his, or Geralt gets too close to him. Jaskier takes a small step back, but pulls Geralt with him. His back meets the slender trunk of the tree, the brush of mistletoe hanging above them.

Jaskier’s eyes are beautiful, Geralt notices. He’s always known. Sometimes, in the summer sun, they catch sharp rays of light and dazzle like the brighter seas to the south. Even now, with no sunlight able to reach through the thick grey clouds overhead, they’re the only source of colour around. And Geralt can’t stop himself from falling further into them.

Jaskier sets a hand on to his chest. He’s somewhat thankful for a slower heartbeat. It’s quickened, but underneath Jaskier’s hand, it surely just might feel like another normal human’s. He tilts his head slightly, scrutinising. “So?” he manages to mumble, watching Geralt carefully, as if he were a frightened animal about to bolt.

He is. He tries not to be, but fear tries to sour his blood and turn him cold. He swallows. Geralt leans forward, catching Jaskier’s lips in his. It’s a soft kiss, nothing more than them pressing lips together. He can feel Jaskier’s fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and the hand entwined in his tightening.

It steals all air from him. When they part, he takes a steadying breath. It’s lilted with Jaskier’s scent; the sweet and expensive oils and lotions he likes to bathe himself in when they stay in taverns and inns.

Jaskier eyes drift down to his lips. He doesn’t say anything, which is a first. If he wanted Jaskier to be quiet for once, he just had to kiss him. It could have saved both of them a lot of hassle and headaches. Jaskier catches a fistful of the Witcher’s shirt in his fist, dragging him closer until they can kiss again. And Geralt melts into it. Anywhere the bard is touching him, or where they’re pressed against the tree, sends sparks and shivers through him.

Jaskier’s lips are terrible things. They’re cursed and enchanted. Geralt loses himself in them. The world falls away as he presses Jaskier against the trunk of the tree, luring more and more kisses out of him. At the first swipe of the bard’s tongue against the seam of his lips, a groan rumbles out of Geralt’s chest.

He breaks them apart, and he isn’t prepared for the whine that threatens to slip out of him. If they don’t stop now, he won’t be able to stop. He’ll catch and bring Jaskier up into his arms and lay him out on the first stretch of flat land he sees and have his way with him. And it won’t be here. He’ll wait for a tavern or inn’s bed. Or the keep.

His throat bobs. Jaskier tries his best to catch his breath, still blearily watching Geralt’s lips and trying to bring themselves back together again. Geralt sets their foreheads together. “Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” he rumbles, nudging their noses together.

It’s enough contact for the bard. A small frown etches into his brow. He knows of the keep. He always asks where Geralt is going when he’s being ‘abandoned’ at Oxenfurt for the season. But the invitation is new. That’s never been extended to him. He blinks up at the Witcher. “If you want,” he breathes, tightening his hold on the Witcher’s shirt and hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come with you.”

Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile. Good. He’ll have Jaskier for the winter. He’ll be safe, with him, in the keep – in his _home_. His heart swells so much it might just crack his chest and spill out on to the ground beneath them.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request. Geralt kisses him again, short and chaste, and when he pulls away Jaskier whines and paws at him. “I want you,” Geralt says, pushing their foreheads back together again. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as he mulls over the words. “But not out here. When we’re in Kaer Morhen.”

There’s an argument perched on the bard’s lips. Once that’s swallowed, but it was there. And Geralt might have agreed with it. Now that he knows what Jaskier’s lips feel and taste like, he doesn’t want to part with them. Even the small walk back to camp, and the future walk towards the keep, it all seems a bit too much. He understands now why Vesemir and the other teachers told them never to earn affection. He already knows he’s lost. He’s compromised. He would leave his swords and life behind and go with Jaskier, wherever the bard wants to go.

Jaskier hums, nudging the tips of their noses together. “Then we must head there immediately,” he muses. His smile splits his face. He’s delighted in himself, the devil. Geralt wants to kiss it away.

Geralt hums in agreement. “We’ll leave in the morning,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. He’s gone. His heart swells in his chest and he knows he’s gone. It’s going to be a pain to explain to Vesemir, but he can work on what he’s going to say when they start trekking toward the keep. Until then, he’s quite happy to leave Jaskier’s hand entangled in his and his lips never too far away from his own.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitters  
> better_marksman (personal) || eyesupmarksman (fandom madness)
> 
> kudos & comments gladly appreciated!


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